Facade
by em2706
Summary: Alex walks us through a late-night visit from Chris. Slash.


He knows what comes next as well as I do, and I can see him tensing for it even before I've picked the last of the wax from his back. I want to lash out at him, speed this up, but I know it'd be a pointless exercise.

I pull the belt out of the open drawer of my bedside cabinet. We chose this belt carefully - not too thick, because we don't want to risk the force of the blows genuinely damaging him, and not too thin because we don't want the edges causing lacerations. I don't want to break the skin or give him welts that take too long to disappear; his body is hardened to my abuse of it just as it's hardened to wrestling, and he heals quickly, but even so we have to time our sessions meticulously so that the evidence of them isn't still written all over him at his next booking. We have to moderate everything.

That's why we use the wax. It leaves no marks, but once I've finished with it, his back is over-sensitised and it increases the effect the belt has. I read once that different coloured candles melt at different temperatures, because of the chemical content of the dyes in the wax. Red ones are supposed to melt at the highest temperatures. It's probably bullshit, but we buy red candles just in case it's not.

I wrap the buckle end of the belt around my hand, but then I pause to run my fingers gently down the unmarked skin of his back. He was expecting the first hit, and he jumps in surprise at my tender touch. He doesn't say anything. He never does at this point, he'll be quiet for a while yet.

I remind myself that my caress isn't what he's here for, and I place a measured strike across the centre of his broad back with the belt. He arches instinctively, but he doesn't make a sound. He's made of sterner stuff than that. Sometimes I wish he wasn't because I want the payoff, but it wouldn't mean so much if it came this easily.

I pause before administering the second stroke, watching the red stripe rise on his skin. The second lash hits higher then the first; I always make sure not to hit the same spot too often. Again, I don't want to break the skin, but as well as that, if his pain is too concentrated in one area the overall effect he needs is lost. I wait again before the next hit, and the next, keeping to the tempo that I know works best for him. He needs time to embrace the pain of each lash, to process it and brace for the next. If I go too fast, we're both disappointed when he goes home. The slow build is important.

Persistence is the key here, not creativity, and as usual I end up with an aching arm. I'd like to tell him how beautiful he looks like this, laid out on his belly with the beginnings of my bruises blooming on his back, but I wouldn't know how. It's just as well.

I find myself bringing the belt down a little harder, and I force myself to go back to the measured strokes we're used to. He doesn't need me to hit harder, he just needs me to keep going. It's been impossible for some time now to find spots I haven't already hit, and I know the impact of the belt on his already bruised flesh feels far more painful than it did when I started. The pair of handcuffs around his wrists have been passed through a bar in my bedstead so that he still has some freedom of movement despite his inability to walk away from me, and he twists onto his side slightly before making himself lie back on his stomach. For a split second I can see the anger on his face, but I'm used to that. We both know we have to go through this part to get where we're going.

Finally, I hear a hiss of pain escape him, and I know the game is on. He starts twisting to the side with almost every stroke, and I adjust my aim accordingly. I've learned to be relentless.

He grunts as the belt hits his skin again, and I feel a surge of pleasure and pride. I love those watershed moments when his control erodes that little bit further. That's why we do this, after all. He's sweating now and it makes the belt sting even more, and he pulls back against the handcuffs. He knows he should be careful about doing that; one time, we finished up and he discovered he couldn't feel his thumb. He'd been pulling against the cuffs so hard he'd crushed a nerve in his wrist, and it took about three weeks for the feeling to come back. We'd been starting to think he'd done permanent damage to himself. He says the ability to fight against his restraints is a big part of the process for him though, so I don't say anything about it. I have to trust his judgement.

The sound of leather on skin rings through the air, and I listen for the accompaniment I know is about to start - and there it is, a choked whimper that even now he tries not to release. I toss the belt aside exultantly. The pain has stripped down enough of his defences that he's primed for the next stage, and this is the moment I've been fantasising about all day, because now I finally get my hands on his body.

Taking the lube from the drawer, I climb onto the bed and forcefully push his legs apart. I crawl between them, reaching out to run my fingertips over his ass. Some of my strokes with the belt were low, although I limit how many of them hit his ass, and he gasps at the tingle I know my touch causes along the light welts. I lean forward and bite hungrily at his bruised right asscheek. He yelps and tries to jerk away from me, and I know I'm biting him too hard, but goddamn, his flesh feels so good in my mouth.

'Too hard' is relative. I asked him once if he wanted to use a safeword. He looked at me like I'd grown another head. Said if he had one, there'd be no point in doing it at all. He also told me to get off the internet, and said it was stupid to try to fit other people's answers to our questions. I know him. I watch him. I know the difference between when he wants me to stop and when he needs me to stop, and that's why he puts his faith in me. I'm not blind to what a big responsibility that is.

I relinquish the grip my teeth have on his ass, and pop open the cap on the lubricant. Most people would say the tiny amount I squeeze onto my finger is ludicrous, but I know what I'm doing. I close the cap again and set the lube aside, rubbing my finger quickly over his asshole to spread the gel around. He flinches away from me again, and I wait for the moment when he relaxes back slightly; that's when I drive my finger into him.

I'm insistent, but I don't do it too fast. I know enough to understand that certain kinds of pressure will hurt the muscle, and that's not what we want. Other kinds of pressure though will just hurt on the surface level, and I love watching him writhe in pain from the friction while I fingerfuck him. Sometimes he bleeds. Not often, because I've had time to figure out exactly how much lube he needs and how hard he needs it, and he's learned how to keep from tensing up, but I don't let it stop me when he does. A little torn skin is nothing to be concerned about at this point.

His first moan escapes when I force a second finger into him, and we both know it's not entirely due to the pain. I wish I could see his face now, because I love his expression when we reach this part - awakening pleasure warring with the pain that already has a tight grip on his mind, and his confusion as he's buffeted between the two, his control of himself beginning to slip despite his determination. As his cock gets harder his moans grow louder, because the base parts of his brain can't reconcile the opposing demands on his senses, and it detracts from his ability to moderate his responses. Even his mulish stubbornness can't save him from making a fool of himself. As he sees it, at least; personally, I think he sounds breathtakingly sexy, but what the hell do I know? I'm just his... actually, I don't know what I am.

I long to slide my cock inside him, but I know if I do it now, it won't be the way I want it. Instead, I pull my fingers out of him and lean up over his body, reaching for the drawer again to retrieve our favourite vibrator. He tenses up, inhaling sharply through his teeth as my chest rubs at the welts the belt left on his beautiful back, and I close my eyes momentarily when I feel his perfect ass against my cock. Resisting him is killing me, but he's always worth the wait. Always.

I settle back down with the vibrator. It's too big to be comfortable, but not so big as to cause him any real problems. I put notably more lube on this than I use on my fingers, because I'm not really sadistic. It's a means to an end for me, and that end is so close I feel like I could reach out and choke it. Pain's not the aim of this part.

His face is buried in the bed, but I can still hear the muffled groan when I push the vibrator into him. It gives him no pleasure, it's just intense. He struggles to accept being laid open this way, resenting the fact that his body takes it with so much ease. I pump it in and out of him roughly a few times, listening to his worn whimpers, and then I turn it on. I can feel the dread coming off him in waves, because he knows what I'm about to do.

I circle the vibrator carefully, and I can't help smirking when his legs go completely stiff. He always tries to hide the reaction that lets me know I've found what I'm looking for, and his legs always give him away. I position the vibrator so that its tip is pressing constantly against his prostate, and at first it's okay. But it just keeps on making him more and more aroused, and as far as he's concerned, he shouldn't like this. His body is betraying him and eventually he starts to fight it, trying to squirm away from the pressure.

I put my free hand on the small of his back, using my weight to keep him from wriggling too far. I make sure the vibrator is still working his prostate, and his struggle to escape it gradually grows more and more frantic. At this point, the pleasure is a kind of pain in and of itself, too intense for him to process. He needs it to stop, needs to regroup, but I'm not about to allow that and he knows it.

Making sure my grip is firm, I start fucking him with the vibrator again. It's too big, and the tip is still pushing against his prostate with every inward stroke, and he heaves in great gasps of air, so powerless against this intense onslaught that he's in danger of hyperventilating. I'm having to work really hard to keep him from throwing me off, and I actually like that. I know he does too, and he sees that as yet another example of his body's treachery.

When he breaks, there are two things that give it away. One is the first sob to fall from his lips, and it's quickly followed by more. The other is that he goes limp. He stops fighting me because mentally he's beyond caring what his reaction to this says about him anymore, and physically he's given up hope of relief from this torture.

I drive the vibrator into him a couple more times, and then I switch it off. I pull it from his body carefully, watching in fascination the way his ass retracts as the vibrator is removed. I don't even look where I'm throwing it as I discard it. Right now the only thing I can see is the work of art laying prone before me, his shoulders shaking and his legs trembling. The need to take him is overwhelming, and at last I don't have to hold back anymore.

I lean over him, placing one of my forearms alongside him to take my weight. I drop reverent kisses on the back of his neck and he sighs in pleasure through his sobs, his entire body so sensitised that I know from experience I could make him yelp just by running my hand up his arm. The control he keeps such an iron grip on is in tatters, and he moans wantonly when the head of my cock pushes at his asshole. I take hold of it with my free hand to guide it inside him, and he's unbelievable; hot and still tight, and most importantly of all, responsive. In this state, he groans and circles his hips when I enter him, something he would never allow himself to do if he had control of himself.

He spreads his thighs wider - oh God, his thighs. So powerful, so sexy... I want them wrapped around me, pulling me in deeper. Why the hell didn't I turn him over first? "Alex," he says, and it's soft and breathy, and it's just my name but I want to hear him do that forever. I can't think now, my whole world is wrapped up in the smooth, warm flesh surrounding my cock and the quiet sounds of pleasure falling from his mouth.

This is the first contact my cock has had with him other than the coincidental nudge against his ass earlier, but it makes no difference. I know I won't last too long. I've been dreaming about this all day - for the last two weeks, if I'm honest - and just like every other time, it's even more breathtaking than I remember. He meets my slow, gentle thrusts brazenly, beyond caring whether he should be aroused by this or not, and I'm not sure whether I should fuck him or worship him. Probably both.

"Fuck me, Alex," he demands softly, grinding his hips back against me. "Cum inside me."

"Anything. Anything you want," I pant in his ear, and I kiss hungrily at his sweaty back while I drive into him deep, letting his desire feed my own. He's normally so guarded, so disciplined, and if he's prepared to let me break him down to this devastatingly vulnerable centre, I couldn't possibly deny him whatever he asks for. I take him passionately, the way he wants me to, and when I cum I wind my arms underneath him, holding him close to me while I release inside him. He winces at the pressure on his sore back, but he still returns the embrace in the few small ways he can, leaning his head against mine and wrapping his foot around my leg.

It takes a moment before I stop feeling dizzy, and then I pull out of him, ignoring his disappointed sigh at the loss of our intimate contact. I kneel next to him and manhandle him onto his tortured back, his wrists crossing as the handcuffs twist, and then I clamber back between his outspread thighs. His erection is straining for attention, and I consider it a privilege to provide it. I get myself into a comfortable position and I steal a glance at his face; he hates me looking at him when he's broken, but at times like this he's handsome enough to make my heart stop. He still has tears in his eyes that he wouldn't want me to see, and he looks both lost and desperate. I'm terrified of how much I feel for him.

I hold the base of his cock and take it into my mouth, and he grunts in relief, pulling at the handcuffs while he thrusts up against my face. Maybe one day we'll be able to do this without the cuffs, but I doubt it. We both know he's afraid to take responsibility for reaching out to me, although I would never be so unkind as to say so.

I love the scent of him, and I love the taste of him. I'd be happy to do this all day, although the plates in my jaw disagree. I bring my other hand up to his ass, gently pushing two fingers inside him. I don't give a fuck that he's already full of my cum, and I fingerfuck him lovingly while I sink my mouth on his cock over and over again, listening to him coming undone piece by piece. He gives a long, breathy sigh when he cums, and I actually feel his cock throb between my lips for a split second before he releases.

I swallow what I can, letting the rest fall from my mouth onto my hand and his balls. We have bigger things on our minds than a little mess. I run my tongue around the head of his cock before I release it from my mouth, although I'm not really doing it for him; I'm doing it because I love the way he feels.

I carefully withdraw my fingers from his ass and reach over to wipe the cum and lube off them on the edge of the bedsheet. It's going to go straight in the laundry the second he leaves anyway. Perhaps eventually we can do this at his place once or twice, and his washing machine can take the strain instead of mine, but for now at least he still needs to be able to walk away from his loss of control. If he'd done this in his own house, he'd move. I wish I was kidding.

I crawl up the bed, still between his legs, and collapse on his chest, allowing myself a little while to catch my breath while I listen to his heartbeat. I try not to get too comfortable because I know from experience that I have a window of around three minutes, tops, during which I can tell him how I feel without being laughed at. He never responds to my declaration of love, and that's okay; I do it because I'll burst if I don't, not because I need him to reciprocate. Being allowed to touch the raw core of him this way is more than I ever would have asked or expected of him. I'm aware that my time is running out, so I fight the desire to doze and shift up a bit more, so I can look him in the eye.

He looks exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, but it doesn't detract from his beauty in the slightest. Sometimes I'm awestruck by him, and this is one of those times. He gazes at me affectionately, and moments like this are the whole reason I do this - moments when he looks at me with something akin to love, when he doesn't hide the depth of his fondness for me. My only regret is that it takes so much pain on his part for him to be this honest with me, and I don't mean the beating with the belt. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

"I love you," he whispers, and I pull back in surprise. I'm genuinely speechless, and that doesn't happen often. I can see the fear and the hopelessness in his eyes, and I know if I'd taken five seconds longer to look up at him, he never would have said it.

"I love you," I echo, and I know I sound like I'm dazed. That's because I am. I lean in to kiss him and he opens his mouth to me immediately, his tongue meeting mine halfway. I don't think I can remember how to breathe. I wish I could ask him to spend the night here, but I'm not going to push my luck.

When we separate, I can already see the barriers slamming back down. I'm not offended by that. This is what always happens. His mask is back in place despite the fact that he's still handcuffed to my bed and I'm still nestled between his legs, and he grins up at me.

"So are you gonna let me out of here before I lose the feeling in my hand again?" he asks, and I smile back down at him with the same friendly demeanour he's using with me. Whatever he wants.

I climb off him and stumble on unsteady legs back to the bedside cabinet to retrieve the keys. Watching him twist and circle his hands within the cuffs, I wonder if he has any real understanding of how much control he has over me.


End file.
